


choose your path

by anthropologicalhands



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Gen, Mass Effect - Freeform, Mild Spoilers for basic story of ME, Naruto for Nepal fill, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthropologicalhands/pseuds/anthropologicalhands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to the universe. Where does your focus fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	choose your path

**Author's Note:**

> notes: for stannide, many thanks for your donation to the narutofornepal project, which I strongly encourage everyone who hasn’t heard of it to check out.  
> notes 2: there will be spoilers for events of the Mass Effect trilogy as the story progresses. While your choices in the game can significantly change how events will play out, there are some touchstone events or plot points this story cannot avoid touching upon.  
> notes 3: I sincerely apologize for how long this is. really.

_2186 CE_

Six hours after the time her court-martial is supposed to have begun, one week after the Reapers’ first strike against Earth, Admiral Sarutobi enters the brig and wipes her record clean.

Fugaku follows Sarutobi through the entrance. His face is inscrutable.

“Commander Shepard just sent in a report from her mission to the Martian archives,” says Sarutobi. He is an older man, lean from his years, but his eyes are sharp and knowing. “It appears that the reason they have been unresponsive to our transmissions was due to Cerberus interference.”

Mikoto’s breathing remains even as the pounding of her heart quickens and her blood runs hot. Fugaku shifts behind Sarutobi, his eyes meeting hers but for a moment before flickering away, to the plain steel walls of her quarters.

“Under the circumstances, the command  has decided to reevaluate the intelligence you have given us,” Sarutobi says. “It would not be worth our time to keep you here.”

“I’m willing to serve in whatever capacity you consider appropriate, Admiral,” says Mikoto. She fights the harsh smirk that threatens to stretch across her face. Reasonable as he is, Sarutobi would not take kindly to such an expression of glee, no matter the reason behind it.

Sarutobi nods and straightens up, his presence suddenly much more imposing in the enclosed space.

“I am glad to hear it. Lieutenant, you are going to help save us the universe.”

* * *

To be fair, that has always been her purpose.

Her decision to leave the Alliance was no mere anti-authoritarian whim. She left because she was tired and still determined, and because someone else offered a chance to make a difference.

But that comes later.

* * *

_2181 CE (5 years earlier)_

Mikoto is Earthborn. Her family has lived in the same region, if not the same town, for generations. Their work has nothing to do with the cosmos, and so nothing is more baffling to them than the day their only daughter announces that she intends to join Systems Alliance. In her shuttle, she is one of only a handful of Japanese among the few dozen recruits, though all are united in both their excitement and their fear. But even that does not unnerve her. Rather than keeping her gaze inwards, she keeps to the window, and watches as the shuttle pushes past the stars, to the ship that will take them from the grasp of their natal system.

Space is beyond anything she expected.

* * *

Boot camp is not. The training exercises are every bit as punishing as promised; words alone are insufficient to describe the endurance training for different gravities.

But  _space_. It is beautiful.

It is enormous.

It is  _crowded_.

It is—

Lonely.

Not forty years since humans discovered the mass effect relays and already the call of the Alliance is starting to lean towards certain families, towards colonists and spacers: those who hold no more regard for Earth than as a casual curiosity, more symbol than dirt.

With over 300 million currently enlisted, it is rare to be stationed with anyone from your own country, never mind the region and let alone your  _village_.

That fact alone is enough to steel Mikoto to approach Fugaku Uchiha when she sees him in the bar _Flux_ , one year into her service.

* * *

He is brought to her attention when someone calls out for “Uchiha” and it isn’t her.

She stops dancing and twists around towards the entrance, looking for the owner of the voice.  

She spots him quickly, a marine she doesn’t know. He is shouldering his way through the crowded dance floor towards the bar in the back, his eyes moving over and past her.

“Over here.” A man’s voice, startlingly familiar, cuts through the noise of the crowd. The marine hears, and changes direction slightly to move towards the source. Mikoto pushes her way through the dance floor, away from Tsume and other members of her unit, to get a closer look at the person who shares her name.

The marine approaches the only other two humans at the bar, both in Alliance dress. One is a stranger, and quickly disregarded.

The other…

Even with the darkness of the club and the ruby backlight of the bar, which blurs the men’s features, Mikoto still recognizes him.

Fugaku Uchiha was far enough ahead of her in school that they never shared a building, but she has always seen him around. The Uchiha are a prominent clan in Konoha, have been for centuries, and their influence has only grown since the formation of the Alliance. Rumored to have once been a great shinobi clan, these days Uchiha interests run the gamut of genetic and technical innovations under the name of Mangekyo Laboratories. Fugaku is their eldest child, and everyone knows he stands to inherit the company after his service is complete.

Mikoto pushes closer, curious both to hear them as well as get a better look.

“Come on,” the marine she followed coaxes. “You’ve seen asari dance. It will be  _mindblowing_.”

“Literally,” adds his friend.

No,  _thank you_ ,” says Fugaku, testy. “It doesn’t matter who is dancing or if they have special pheromones—I don’t want to see it.”

They laugh, cajole him one last time, and then leave him for their own entertainment. He turns back to the bar. Mikoto lingers, suddenly uncertain whether she should move back into the throngs or keep stepping forward, towards him.

There are many reasons to approach him. On the professional side, he is said to be skilled with long range weapons, to be serving on border patrol. On the personal side, he is not unattractive. The past few years have agreed with him; his jaw is more defined and his shoulders broader than when she last saw him.

But all she is thinking, instead, is that here is a man who knows the cheery red paint of the Hokage Tower. Who has eaten dango at one of the many stands under its shadow and knows the faces of the vendors. Who has felt the first chill of winter when it creeps into their village, and can recognize the signs when spring is imminent.

Mikoto is deeply homesick. She hasn’t seen Earth since the day she boarded the shuttle to take her to the Academy. The ache is even stronger now, for up until a few short days ago she planned to spend her shore leave back on Earth.

But when her friends asked her if she wanted to come to the Citadel…

The _Citadel_. Widow System, the Serpent Nebula, Milky Way. Shaped like a folded windmill: a center ring with five fingers half-spread. A multispecies population five times the size of Kyoto. A deep space station constructed by the extinct Protheans, transformed into the intergalactic political and cultural heart of the universe.

 _No one_  turns down a chance to see the Citadel.

* * *

When she approaches Fugaku, his expression is not friendly. It is that of a man utterly at the end of his patience. He starts to speak, and so Mikoto speaks out over him, and quickly, to avoid rejection for an offer she does not intend to extend.

“You’re from Konoha, right?” she asks, so rushed and breathless and clearly flustered that whatever he is about to say never leaves his mouth.

“I am,” he affirms, curt. His voice is low, but still cuts through the music and chatter of the crowd around them. “And you?”

She nods, flushing, though she doubts her embarrassment is visible through the darkness. “Yes.”

“Where did you live?”

“Two blocks down from the ramen restaurant. You know, that important one: Ichiraku’s?” Tentatively, feeling foolish. “Did you ever go there?”

To her relief, he nods.

“I like Ichiraku’s,” says Fugaku, his mouth turning up at the corners, his hostile demeanor receding. “It’s still doing well?”

“Of course,” says Mikoto, leaning against the bar, relieved.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He shifts so that he faces her fully, still leaning against the bar counter. Mikoto mirrors his posture, feeling a little vulnerable under his gaze.

He considers her, thoughtful. “You look familiar. What’s your name?”

“Mikoto Uchiha. Written like yours. No relation,” she adds, though doubtless he knows _that_. “My branch split off generations before.”

He nods. “I remember seeing your face, now, even if only around the village. Did you ever see me?”

There is a slight uncertainty to his question—his tone a little too casual to be careless.

She smiles. “I did.”

He asks her after people back home, familiar personalities. The conversation is routine and like nothing else she has had since she entered the Alliance. Recounting the mundane details of some of the more memorable inhabitants nearly has her floating, it has been so long.

From there, their conversation flows away from home to other subjects. Planets shared and experiences apart. He is a squad leader aboard his ship and fills in the details of missions that she has only heard vague news of back home. She, in turn, speaks freely of her training, complains about a couple members of her unit that have been getting on her nerves, and describes some of Tsume’s more colorful exploits during their time together.

It is more comfortable than any random encounter has a right to be, more of a balm than she could have hoped for.

* * *

“What brought you here?” he asks her, later in the evening. They have moved from the standing bar to one of the small tables on the edge of the dance floor, the enormous windows allowing for an open view of the Citadel cityscape.

It might be the drink in her hand (or the one in his), but the way he says it sounds the slightest bit flirtatious.

“What else?” Mikoto shrugs; the movement loosened, and waves towards an invisible horizon behind them, beyond the sweating bodies. “I want to see how we’re doing up here.”

“We?”

“Humans.”

He raises an eyebrow at that. Irreverently, she wonders if he could always do that or if it was gene therapy. She’s heard the rumors; she wouldn’t mind being able to do that.

“That’s it?” he asks, having the gall to sound faintly incredulous. Or maybe he’s being teasing. She’s not entirely sober enough to be sure.

Mikoto looks down into her vivid green drink, embarrassed. “That’s the gist of it.”

Fugaku sets down his empty glass; she hears it click against the table. “You give the ‘gist of it’ when you don’t have time to elaborate. I have nowhere else to be, and neither do you. Why not elaborate?”

“I suppose.” Mikoto takes a sip of her drink, acidic and fruity, trying to think. She has been teased before for her other reasons. Been met with polite condescension. She truly likes Fugaku; enough that she will be greatly disappointed if his reaction is just more of the same.

He raises his eyebrow again at her, expectant.

“Well?” He prompts.

“Space. The final frontier. Adventure. Everything they say in the vids.” She makes another vague, waving gesture; this time towards the curved and glittering ceiling. “I mean, twenty-four years ago, we went to space and found we weren’t alone. Found a community bigger than we ever could have _imagined_ —and now we’re a part of it. I want to  _see_  that. All of it. And make it wonderful.”

She takes a swallow of her drink, studies how the remaining liquid swirls in her glass. She peeks through her hair at him, waiting for his response.

“What is your plan?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“I’m figuring it out as I go along.” She looks away, out over the vista of flickering high rises and hovercraft. “For now: protecting people. Make them happy.” Then, feeling bold, “Why are you here?”

The twist in his smile goes a little tighter. “Nothing so honest. I wanted to make a name for myself.”

“Has it worked?” Mikoto keeps her tone even, observing his body language. There are boys who react like that in her unit—defensive, unwilling to describe their path.

“Yes, though not how I expected. Still, I keep myself interesting to the brass in my own way.”

“I expect so. Is your great-uncle is still in the Alliance?” she asks, an old fragment of gossip resurfacing in her memory.

Fugaku snorts and shakes his head. “Is that what people are still saying? He went to space, but never with the Alliance. No one has heard from him in years. No, as far as the family records are concerned, I am the first to enter the service. Even that nearly didn’t happen, despite how proud we are of our history as warriors. It was absurd.”

Mikoto nods and does not push further.

“What about you?” he asks, the hard smile softening into something more human. “Any family here?”

Mikoto shakes her head. “No, they’re all on Earth. They don’t understand why I chose to come out here, even if they are supportive.”

“When did you enlist?”

“Eleven months ago.”

“What are you going to do once your shore leave is up?”

“Sniper training.”

His eyebrows shoot up (both of them this time). “ _Sniper training?_ ”

She can see him sizing her up again: her small bones, hair longer than regulation (to be cut before the week is out), and general air of mildness. She feels a small thrill, having his gaze sweep over her.

“I was recommended early,” she answers, not looking away.

“Congratulations.” He repeats. The respect in his voice is genuine, and Mikoto grins to hear it. She can barely hear him, though whether that is the pulse of the club or of her blood pounding in her ears, she is uncertain. “You must be truly exceptional.”

She shrugs. “I focus well.”

“I don’t doubt it. In the meantime, you better make the most of your time off. I’ve heard stories about that training.”

“So have I. Believe me—I’m making the most of it. I’ll take my fun where I can get it.”

“But not too far,” says Fugaku, leaning back in his chair.

Mikoto considers. “Not too far,” she concedes. “The Citadel is incredible enough. I’d rather not experience the other side of Citadel security.”

“They aren’t so bad. I take it you have been enjoying yourself here?”

“Indeed. Though…apart from the view, it wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Why?” he asks.

“It’s more familiar than I thought it would be. We’re on a  _space station_ , but it’s…just a club. I mean, the drinks are cheaper than on Earth, and the waitresses are blue. But it isn’t that different, in the end.”

Fugaku laughs at that, deep and pleasant. “Well, perhaps I can direct you somewhere with a little more flavor. I can’t guarantee dancing, but it could be a good time.”

It turns out the Citadel is a frequent haunt of Fugaku’s, and he has more than a few suggestions for places she might visit, as well as advice to avoid  _Chora’s Den_ , ‘unless you are really looking for a fight’.

She doubts she will manage to visit most of them before her leave is over, but she writes them down anyways, making a mental note to take Tsume to  _Chora’s Den_  another time.

They don’t go home together. Looking at him, with his strong build and keen eyes, Mikoto admits internally that the thought is  _deeply_  appealing.

But she has friends to take home, he has other places to be, and that is that.

Still, it is nice to remember, how even in the middle of space, the world can feel so much larger with the inclusion of someone new.

* * *

She never expected to be suited to battle. She wanted the universe and the Alliance was the fastest way to get there.

Her affinity for the sniper rifle, therefore, comes as a surprise. How well it fits in her hands, how it collapses in its holder when not in use, and stays nestled against the small of her back.

But the focus it requires, the risk and that finely tuned precision—she has it. She can pick off her enemies with just a glance; can keep her squadmates’ advances from being halted and overwhelmed nearly singlehanded. She likes this ability, this strange intimacy, in zeroing in on a target.

She excels, of course, throughout all three months of her training.

She would not do anything less.

It is this focus that makes her path through the stars, abruptly, change.

At the end of her training, a message turns up unexpectedly on her terminal. A transfer.

Skills like her, it reads, are needed elsewhere. In a week’s time, she is to report to the  _U.S.S. Manila_ , under Captain Achebe. She will be the Infiltrator of an elite squad, under the command of one Service Chief Uchiha.

A week later, she is back at the Citadel again, where the  _Manila_  is currently docked. Fugaku is waiting for her, dressed in his Alliance blues and as handsome under the daytime lights as he was in the club.

“This is a surprise,” she says, when he comes to meet her at the docking station of the Citadel, standing together amid the masses.

Fugaku smirks at her—not some slight tilt of the lips but something cheeky and arrogant. It makes her want to laugh—though protocol and a healthy dose of self-consciousness keeps her from doing so.

“Hardly,” he replies, professional as can be. “We needed a sniper, and you came highly recommended. Walk with me, Corporal. I’ll show you your new home.”

And so their paths not only cross but converge.

* * *

She was comfortable with her last unit: boot camp and high risk situations do that for you. But even early on, she was being tapped for specialized training and felt removed as a result.

On the  _Manila_  it is different. After the tour, when she is settling into the barracks, she is almost immediately approached in the barracks by two of her new squadmates.

One girl, with sandy blond hair cropped under her ears and sea green eyes, introduces herself as Mebuki Haruno.

“Where are you from?” She asks, flopping down on the bunk directly to Mikoto’s left. “You’re Japanese too, right? Are you from Tokyo?”

“No,” says Mikoto, caught off-guard. “Konoha. You?”

Mebuki smirks, crossing her arms under her head. “Nope. I was born there, and I visit, but I’ve mostly been a spacer brat. Miss the food, though. Nothing else really compares.”

“Me too,” admits Mikoto. “Boot camp rations are awful. Is this ship food any better?”

Mebuki purses her lips, but then shakes her head and shrugs. “It’s all right. Our cook actually makes the effort to get seasoning when we stop to reload supplies at least.”

“At least we know what’s going in the food,” says the other girl, who introduced herself only as Nguyen, her black hair in a tight bun, which provides an interesting contrast with her cheerful face. She sits on the bed above Mebuki’s, her legs swinging idly. “Not like that krogan noodle place in Illium.”

Mebuki shudders. “Please. I’m trying to forget.” She turns to Mikoto. “You’ve heard how the krogan homeworld is supposed to be impossible to live on? Well, that kind of translates into an anything-can-be eaten mentality.”

“Their noodles are not noodles so much as stir-fried worms,” Nguyen translates, still grinning. “They’ll tell you, if you ask.”

“I wish they didn’t. Basically, don’t trust Diaz with picking a restaurant.”

“Thanks for the warning,” says Mikoto, grimacing. “When I meet him, I will  _definitely_ keep that in mind.”

“Good. You’ll meet him when he gets off shift in a couple of hours. He’s good at games. You know poker?”

“If not, I can teach you,” offers Nguyen, before Mikoto can answer. “It won’t be a problem. Fair warning: asari are queens, turians are kings and quarians are jokers.”

That is how it is with this company, Mikoto learns. How easy it is to be accepted.

* * *

The squad is composed of nineteen soldiers, all colorful in their own ways. The much-maligned Diaz is fearless and apparently determined to try every delicacy in the universe that he can digest. (He has apparently eaten dextro food multiple times—according to Mebuki, it never goes well). Jameson is headstrong, temperamental, and sketches fashion plates in her spare time—her little sister works at Alexander McQueen, so Jameson is always sending her new inspirations. Onate is excitable, inventive, and has a suspiciously large collection of digital jazz romances.

The others make equally strong impressions. There are no grudges among them, though they  tease and mock each other without mercy. They are, decidedly, a seamless unit. One that, Mikoto is surprised to find, she fits.

* * *

The first couple of days on their squad, Mikoto is approached under the assumption that she and Fugaku are related—cousins of some kind. Then, when she confirms they are not, they ask again, in a more teasing tone, if they are married. Her unit members are the easygoing kind, and shortly start making numerous jokes about ‘Mama and Papa Uchiha’.

True, Fugaku does not favor her nor does she treat him with anything less than the respect afforded to one’s commanding officer. He corrects her form in the shooting range when she handles shotguns and converses with her in mess hall just like anyone else. He brings her planetside when her skills are necessary, but leaves her behind when they are not.

Except.

Sometimes, when they are the only two together in the room, they will switch off their translation chips and speak Japanese together. Never for very long, and only about mundane subjects. But it always leaves her feeling lighter.

Even when they are not speaking in their mother tongue, they have their own language. When she complains of the mess hall food, she can mention  _Yoshiyumi’s_  and he knows that she especially craves soba.

And, of course, they are the kind of people who can sit together, and say nothing at all.

It is a different kind of friendship than what she has had. One she did not realize how badly she wanted.

* * *

The  _Manila_  patrols the reaches of the Attican Traverse, just bordering the Terminus Systems, answering distress calls against slave raiders and mercenaries looking for easy pickings. Of the company, Fugaku’s squad in particular is the elite, sent in when a small team is needed to quickly and efficiently exterminate threats.

Mikoto’s only complaint is that, despite fighting to protect human interests, she is seeing very little of the actual community into which humanity has entered.

Instead, she sees what others dub the dregs of the universe. The scavengers and vagabonds and downright criminals.

The slavers are the worst.

Sometimes, they arrive too late to be of any help, when the raiders have come and gone. She has seen the bodies, the ashes of proud young settlements, torn apart by those in the market for easy pickings. And there are few things as easy as a border colony.

She has to remind herself that there are other aliens out there who welcome them, that these are the exception to the rule.

Except…

It is a wide universe, and not always friendly. Though humans are permitted to travel across Citadel space and beyond, they are not always welcome. Even the Citadel, open to all, loses much of the glamor it held in her heart for so long. When they stop there now, for meetings or missions or leave, Mikoto finds herself feeling…tolerated, at best. Infantilized at worst.

She finds that she prefers the comfort of the  _Manila_. The ship, with its curved metal walls and blue underglow, becomes something like a refuge.

* * *

“Seriously, if you could only visit one alien homeworld, which one would it be?”

Onate is good at random questions, and likes to instigate bonding games whenever they have any down time. There are six of them currently in the barracks, sprawling and doing minor tasks.

“Asari, hands down,” says Diaz.

“ _Typical_ ,” mutters Jameson, sketching out a particularly striking dress.

“Not like that. Thessia looks amazing. And they are totally relaxed about newcomers—it would be nice not to feel like we are on pins and needles all the time.”

“Fair point,” says Onate, tapping into her omnitool and projecting images for the room to see.

Mebuki snorts and shakes her head. “Asari aren’t that nice, not even to other biotics. They would eat you for breakfast. I’d rather go to the quarian homeworld, Rannoch.”

Mikoto looks up from her omnitool, bemused.

“…isn’t it more of a  _geth_  homeworld now? You know, since they kinda threw out their creators centuries ago?”

“Wouldn’t  _you_  want to visit a planet full of AIs?” points out Mebuki.

“Only with a disruptor,” sats Mikoto.

“Not when they spend so much time trying to shoot us,” agrees Jameson.

“Fair point. What about you, Chief?”

Onate raises her voice to direct it to Fugaku—as their superior officer, to join their games would be unprofessional, but he shares their space without trouble. And if there is one thing Mikoto has noticed, in these surprising few weeks, is how easy the interactions are between the squad and their superior officer.

“The turian homeworld,” he says, without looking up from his book.

“You won’t be able to eat anything there,” observes Onate. “Not unless they have specialty levo restaurants.”

“I would manage,” says Fugaku calmly. “But I would like to see what kind of a planet would have produced such a disciplined people.”

Diaz leans forward. “Chief, no offense, but why would you want to stay on a planet with lizards with sticks up their asses?”

Fugaku just looks at him. Diaz ducks his head.

“Sorry, sir. Please disregard my idiot question. Hit my head too hard last mission.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” says Fugaku, mildly. “I would advise that you visit Dr. Russell.”

“Yes, sir.” Diaz goes back to cleaning his boots, smearing so much polish that he will probably be able to blind enemies with their own reflections.

“Good.” Fugaku closes his book and stands. “Uchiha, Nguyen, meet me at 20:00 by the storage lockers so we can get your pistols upgraded.”

“Yes, sir.”

Onate watches him go.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully. “He really should just relax and hang out with us. Chief always has his eyes on us. Already treats us more like his family than, you know, an elite squad.”

“I like it,” says Nguyen. “It makes sense to me. You said he has a big family in Konoha, right, Mikoto?”

Mikoto nods absently. “Yes. It’s huge.”

“But you’re not a part of it?” asks Onate.

Mikoto shakes her head.

“Not yet,” stage-whispers Nguyen. Jameson snickers, hiding it with a cough.

A few weeks ago, such a comment would have offended her, no matter how innocently meant. Now, however, Mikoto merely raises her eyebrows at her.

“Not like that.” She says, cool.

Mebuki laughs. “Aw, come on, Mama Uchiha, we mean no disrespect. You work well with Chief.”

“Then call me his  _eyes_. It’s certainly more accurate.”

“When you so conveniently share a last name?” wonders Nguyen.

Mikoto narrows her eyes at her, and Nguyen pretends to ward her off, hands up and hiding her face.

“All right,” says Onate, taking pity on her. “Stop teasing. Mikoto, your turn. Tell us the one planet you want to visit the most.”

“I can’t think of  _just_  one,” protests Mikoto. Then she pauses, as a new thought floats to the front of her mind. “Though I do have to wonder, after seeing all of this space, how small will Earth look, when we see it again?”

* * *

Distracted by the warmth and ease of her new family, it takes months before Mikoto notices the strangeness surrounding Fugaku.

They receive a distress call from a ground GPS team, heavily scrambled, and are sent down for a planetside investigation.

…which is quickly ended when a thresher maw erupts from the sand and tries to drag Mebuki underground. How he managed to react so quickly, Mikoto doesn’t know, but Fugaku fires warning shots straight at the monster and forces it to drop Mebuki, who is shaken and her armor scratched, but relatively unharmed. The thresher maw snarls and dives back underground. The team immediately scrambles for refuge amidst the rocks, off the sand.

The nest is less than 100 kilometers from a recent industrial outpost and the sheer amount of red tape this incident will cause is staggering. Unfortunately, the thresher maw is an immediate problem that needs to be solved  _now_. Even more unfortunately, there is no formal Alliance procedure on how to handle thresher maws beyond ‘not dying’.

What they  _really_  need is a Mako, but communications on a new colony world are always a little scrambled, and it will take time before the  _Manila_  can drop it down so that they might actually have a fighting chance.

Fugaku directs them to positions on the surrounding rocky outcrops. Some members of the squad—biotics like Diaz and the others—are tasked with drawing out the maw by disrupting its’ ground through dark energy blasts, while the rest of them try to fire at the creature and inflict as much damage as they can.

Mikoto stays out of range with her sniper rifle, aiming for the maw’s vulnerable mouth when it stretched open to spew acid at any members of her squad unfortunate enough to be in view. However, the bullets she has for her rifle do not do nearly the damage she would hope they would. Her shotgun would be far more efficient. However, that requires abandoning her much safer position.

She taps into the comm. “Chief, I can’t do any damage from this angle. I need to get closer.”

Fugaku’s voice crackles through. “What do you have?”

“Scimitar pistol.”

“Ammunition?”

“Incendiary bullets.”

There’s a short bark of laughter on the other side of the comm. “Yes that might do some damage. Get into position with Diaz at two o’ clock. Use the rocks to get over to him as much as you can. The thresher maw won’t be underfoot but we don’t want to take any chances.”

“Roger,” says Mikoto. She looks out. Team Alpha is on the other side of the circle, while Team Beta is going into position at her six. She takes a deep breath, feeling horribly heavy under her armor, and sets off to Diaz’s position. The rocky outcrops ring around the sandy grounds of the thresher maw’s nest circle and it is relatively easy to avoid the sand. When she can’t, she tries to step as lightly as possible. She can hear the other members of her team blasting the ground across the nest, to keep the maw away from her, and tries not to wonder if maws can sense anything more than sound.

Luckily, she reaches Diaz without incident, and slides down beside him. He gives her a thumbs up; his entire body glowing blue as he powers up his biotics.

She taps back into the channel. “I’m here.”

“Good. Everyone else in position?”

“Aye,” rings the chorus of voices through Mikoto’s helmet.

“Good,” says Fugaku. His position is somewhere on the other side of the nest. “The thresher maw is going to come up around thirty degrees to the north. The second it comes up, you know where to aim. Try not to get hit by acid.”

Mikoto wants to ask, how, exactly, Fugaku knows where the thresher maw is going to erupt from next, but erupt it does and then they are fighting.

Thresher maws are terrifying. The sinuous body is covered in gray armor and rises, snakelike, nearly twenty feet out of the ground. She has heard rumors, from other missions lucky enough to encounter such beasts and survive, that the bodies of thresher maws, fully excavated, are twice as long underneath. It has appendages like a praying mantis, with sharp spurs that Mikoto can only imagine too well reaching out to grab their prey and drag them under ground. Its four slitted eyes and lashing tongue glow an unsettling blue. Its mouth is flanked by two pincers. Without hesitation, they unleash a fire barrage against the thresher maw, peppering its face, ducking back behind the rocks to avoid the reactive spray of acid. It screeches, and dives underground again.

“It’s going to come up again, six o’clock and forty meters away,” says Fugaku. “ _Go._ ”

For nearly a half hour, they are on high alert, running to position, fire at the thresher maw as it bursts out of the ground, dodge, and run again after it burrows itself. Every time, Fugaku is able to predict where exactly it is going to come up.

They keep it up until the Mako arrives, and they can use the massive gun to take it out.

* * *

On reflection, it is the worst game of whack-a-mole Mikoto has ever played.

Not her words: credit goes to a very irate Mebuki.

“I am never doing that again,” Mebuki groans as she crawls into her bunk, fresh from the showers. “Ever. They can court-martial me. I don’t care. I abstain from all thresher maw missions in the future.”

“Well, you never know,” says Nguyen cheerfully, playing cat’s cradle with a broken shoelace. “If they knew it was a thresher maw going in, they would have sent out the Mako early on. They just thought it was a disturbance. Any of our other missions could have been against thresher maws.”

Mebuki groans, and flops over onto her stomach.

Mikoto smiles, listening to Nguyen and Jameson get into an argument about the idea that thresher maws reproduce via spore as she writes in her journal. Records of the days going past, so she can remember events to tell her parents the next time she has a chance to send out a transmission. So she doesn’t forget a thing about these moments.

“Well, at least if I’m going to face thresher maws, I’d rather it be with Commander Uchiha than anyone else,” says Mebuki. “It’s nice to know where it’s going to come up next, as opposed to falling down its gullet when it pops out of the sand.”

“ _Mebuki,_ ” chides Nguyen, suddenly severe.

“What? I’m just saying I’m grateful for our chief’s fancy implants.”

Mikoto stops writing.

“Implants?” she asks, looking up.

“You don’t know?” Mebuki sounds surprised. “I thought you did! How do you not?”

“No,” says Mikoto, confused.

“How could she?” reasons Nguyen. “She’s new.”

“I thought—well, it doesn’t matter. Basically, the brass doesn’t want news to spread that they are running field tests like this. But yeah. He has them. We’re allowed to know.”

“Field tests? On what?”

“Some new experimental technology. You know, seeing very far distances, detecting heat signatures or vital signs. That sort of thing. They send us on missions, Fugaku directs us, eye results sent straight back to the lab. You really didn’t know?”

“I didn’t,” says Mikoto. She returns to her journal, marking down the events of the day simply, without elaboration. She wonders why Fugaku has never mentioned his own part in the squad. Her face feels hot, and her pride stung, that he did not even think to tell her something so important.

* * *

Later, she finds him in the mess hall, waiting for the coffee machine to finish filtering.

“Corporal.”

“Chief.” She goes to grab a cup and join him. “Do you have a minute?”

He cocks his head and looks down at her, frowning. “Is there something concerning you?”

“Nothing like that. I just had a question about our assignment today.”

Fugaku relaxes. “Of course. Is it regarding your performance?”

“No. I want to know about how you were able to determine the precise location of the thresher maw, despite the fact that it was underground.”

For a horrible moment, he is completely still.

“Who was gossiping?” he asks, jabbing the machine with more force than necessary.

“Not gossip, Chief. Haruno just mentioned that the reason our maneuvers succeeded was because of the eyes you’re testing.”

Fugaku snorts. “Haruno does not give herself credit. The danger was very real, regardless of what I could see. I was able to read its heat signature because it did not burrow very deeply below the surface when it moved. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, sir.” She has others. But this one is answered, at least, for now. There is a time and place for the others, and at least now she knows  _something_.

“Good,” says Fugaku, relaxing. The coffee machine finally beeps and he goes to refill his cup. “Now, if you have any concerns that this ability might start turning us into a specialized task force for thresher maws, I can make no promises.”

“Wasn’t even considering it, sir.”

…Well.

She  _hadn’t_  been considering it.

* * *

Now that she knows Fugaku is testing some kind of implant, Mikoto is able to observe and understand Fugaku’s actions in a greater context. She has often wondered why, though he is Soldier class, he hangs back on missions. Why he chooses to share her cover, his eyes always on the squad, directing them around their enemies. It has always been unusual, but she can appreciate it, what he is doing. That his priority is on protecting the others.

No one is infallible, however, and one day they both miss the batarian sniper during a standoff in a cargo bay. Fugaku goes down without even a shout.

Mikoto sees him only as a flash in the corner of her eyes before she turns and puts a shot between the sniper’s eyes. Once she sees his body fall, she ducks back behind the crate.

To her relief, the shot went wide, just grazing Fugaku’s shoulder. Still, bad luck to have ripped through one of the few places in his armor without plating; he will need to be taken to medbay when the fight is done.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, off the comm.

His reply is unrepeatable, but clearly, the damage is not too terrible.

“Was that  _Chief?_ ” Diaz’s voice filters through, delighted. Fugaku, apparently, had not turned his off.

“Not a word, Diaz,” says Fugaku tersely, levering himself up, grimacing. “I just got shot by a novice. Make sure to watch Chung’s and Ngozi’s backs as they advance the control room. We don’t want them getting lucky again.”

“Roger.”

The medgel pack she breaks and smears over his shoulder holds through the fight, until the pirates have been defeated and all of their ‘repurposed’ cargo returned to the very relieved overseer. But Fugaku still cannot move his shoulder without wincing, and so once they are safely aboard the _Manila_  again she takes him straight to medbay.

The following checkup is routine enough—Dr. Russell scolds, Fugaku grunts, and Mikoto watches and pretends she isn’t enjoying the sight of Fugaku with his shirt off—once the wound has been taken care of, at least.

But then Dr Russell then takes out a small flashlight out of his pocket, and starts to perform an impromptu eye exam.

He asks a series of questions about Fugaku’s vision, all of which Fugaku answers only in monosyllables, jaw set. Mikoto does not quite understand why. These would be standard questions if he had hit his head, perhaps—but he has not. Dr. Russell must also be using some special kind of light, because it reflects red in Fugaku’s eyes. It is deeply unnerving.

“Can we wrap this up?” Fugaku demands. “I need to debrief with the captain.”

Dr Russell gives him a look.

“We’re not done here. Come back when your meeting is over, we need to run some tests.”

Fugaku merely grunts and pulls his shirt back over his head. “Corporal, with me.”

“Yes, sir.” She barely nods to Dr. Russell before she is running back out of medbay, to keep up with Fugaku’s pace.

“Chief, did something else happen in the firefight that I didn’t see?”

“Nothing worth your concern, Corporal.”

“You didn’t hit your head?”

“I did not. Corporal, I’m going to ask that you schedule a session with Onate and Genini in the shooting range. Both of them seem to be relying on greater firepower capacity than accuracy with their weapons.”

“Got it, Chief.”

They reach the control room. The doors slide open and she can see the captain already waiting inside. But Mikoto also sees the main screen, the one reserved for calls to the upper brass and their ilk, up and running.

Fugaku nods at her, a dismissal, before the doors seal shut behind him.

Mikoto returns to the barracks, unsettled.

What exactly is Fugaku testing?

* * *

“When will the prototypes for your implants available?”

They are alone in the break room, playing chess at four in the morning. Their shifts align this week, and Mikoto has been biding her time, mulling for the right moment to probe for more information.

“I know about as much as you do.” His response is unusually testy. “I’ve told you; I’m no lab monkey.”

She moves the pieces on the board, unstung. “Do you think it would be useful for me to acquire? My eyes are good, but they could be better.”

“It would not be worth the months wasted in recuperation after you received them.” He rebukes. “Besides, the announcement is probably premature. Last I heard, there were still some serious flaws with the design. The long term damage far outweighs the short-term benefits.”

“Yours seem all right.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. “They would not be the same.”

“Why not?” Mikoto pushes. It feels like pulling nails, goes against every instinct to just _let it alone_. But it is driving her mad, not knowing.

“The ones in development still have serious problems. Any enemies using disruptor technology could cause serious damage to the tech implants. It won’t just harm your ability to focus; it would damage how you would see normally.”

“We’ve been through those before; you never seemed to have a problem.”

“That was different. I don’t have the same limitations.”

“How is that possible? Aren’t you the prototype?”

“Yes, but the process by which I developed my eyes is not one most will undergo. The tech will speed up the process.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks at him, can see the muscles in his throat flex.

“I do not have  _implants_.”

Mikoto stares, mouth not agape but very close. She sets her piece back down on its square.

Fugaku’s expression has not changed, exactly, but the line of his mouth has gone taut.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I do not know why I said that.”

“What do you mean—you  _don’t_  have implants?”

“I do not. People tend to get uneasy about abilities that cannot be adequately explained. It is easier to imply that I am augmented.”

Mikoto can’t wrap her head around it. “You don’t have implants.”

“Correct.”

“But you still have those abilities?”

“Yes.”

Mikoto scratches at her temple, cards her fingers right through her hair, not sure what to think. Implants made sense;  _this_ does not.

“So you mean you have genetic enhancement, instead,” she begins, determined to straighten out the facts.

“That’s right.”

“That’s  _illegal_.” She moves her chess piece.

“Only splicing different species together is illegal,” points out Fugaku, grimacing at the board. “Other forms of experimentation have blurred boundaries.”

“I don’t see your point. The calls you have been making are hardly just a result of corrected vision.”

“You are right.” Fugaku leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “What you have seen me do is a result of generations of genetic engineering and a few beneficial accidents along the way.”

“How is that possible? X-ray vision, heat signatures, hyperfocus—how are those possible from _genetics?_ ”

“I had to undergo additional augmentation to bring those abilities out to their full potential,” admits Fugaku. “But my own genetic code held the right components. You know my family’s interest in the subject.”

“Why would they do that? They experimented on their own children?”

“We keep an extensive gene bank. First, it was to determine the cause of a debilitating eye disease that afflicted much of the Uchiha in old age. I have told you that we were once a shinobi clan. Did you ever hear the old stories?”

Mikoto shakes her head.

“The Uchiha were known for their keen eyesight, the ability to detect enemies even when they were in hiding. Again, old stories. But my family is one that puts stock on old stories, and as biotech developed, they played around with their own genetics. They were responsible in their own way—never dramatic changes, only experimenting on themselves. But when you change your own genetic structure, even if only switching on genes that were off before, there is always a small chance it is transmissible. And when we made first contact, well, we found out anything was possible, and got a lot bolder.”

“Which led to you.”

“Which led to me.”

“So you aren’t just testing a weapon. You  _are_ a weapon.”

Fugaku looks shamefaced then, as much as she has ever seen him.  “That is how it turned out…but it was not my original intentions. My eyes initially made me ineligible as the family head, though it is my birthright and of my relatives, I am the best disposed to lead them. I’m certain you remember stories of our arguments.”

She does. The village spoke of nothing else for weeks.

“I joined the Alliance to prove my ability to lead. I thought I could conceal the enhancements in my eyes. I was wrong.”

He tells her how his commanding officer ordered a full genetic workup; how he feared that he would be dishonorably discharged. Instead, they expressed interest in funding further research in mapping out his hyperfocus, and potentially commissioning the Uchiha to develop ocular implants—on a more legal scale.

That had been four years ago.

They play in silence for a time. There is a question in Mikoto’s mind, one that other under circumstances; she would not dare to ask.

“Are you sorry?” she asks. “That you are like this?”

“I have never been anything else,” he says simply. “My eyes help us succeed in our missions. It has enabled me to attain rank quickly, and garner a strong reputation. And if they are successful, these implants will guarantee the Uchiha name will be held high regard. It would create a legacy.”

“Would you return home then, to see it through?” asks Mikoto. His words are strange, and do not line up with his actions. Though she has visited briefly to Earth in the last year, Fugaku has not returned since he enlisted.

He shrugs, his eyes not meeting hers. “I must finish my duties here, first. My father is in good health, and there is no fear of him dying early. When it is time to settle down, that is when I would return.”

“To continue your legacy?”

“Yes.”

“Would you do to your own children, then, what your parents did to you?”

He pauses, and shakes his head.

“I will pass my eyes onto my children. I will have no need to modify them.”

“But won’t you?” presses Mikoto.

“I will do what I can to ensure they carry my name with pride.”

All very well and good, Mikoto thinks, watching the studious blankness of his expression. But it is not an answer.

* * *

The longer she spends in space, the more Mikoto learns the language of the stars. And in that tongue, to speak of ‘humanity’ is to mean controversy.

The positive reactions range from all-consuming: an asari on break at  _Flux_  welcomes them with open arms, to the quantified: a turian commander concedes that Fugaku’s squad, in their hearing, is “well put together, for humans.”

The insults are nothing as marked as what humans had amongst themselves for centuries, but it grows wearing.

Despite her efforts to maintain a calm demeanor, each slight lodges itself deeper and deeper into Mikoto’s heart. Does no one see the lengths humanity goes through to catch up? The modifications like Fugaku’s, the original existence of the biotics, all of the genetic alterations she has endured to ensure that her fragile body can withstand the force of a krogan’s first strike, even if nothing short of running away will let her survive the second. No other species seems to need such measures. The Council works because each side offers a service the others need. The asari are diplomats and negotiators, the salarians have their research, and the turian offer their military. For them, humanity’s versatility is what makes them interesting as a potential member race.

To impress the Council, humanity has stretched itself very thin indeed.

 _They call us pests,_  she thinks viciously.  _Headstrong, spreading too fast. But can’t they see how hard it is to keep up? Without help or support, nothing but ourselves._

Humanity pushes beyond their limits but the Council wants more. Why do they do so much, when there is no promise of reciprocation? Mikoto sees it with every mission: families cowering in the back of their houses, when they arrive in time to push back the raiders. Smoking rubble and the crying survivors, when they do not. They are given the most dangerous worlds to inhabit, the most dangerous edges of space, and chastised for not guarding their own.

What more must humanity do, to  _prove_  themselves?

* * *

Hand over Prothean technology with nary a fight, apparently.

Protheans, though long extinct, are believed to be the civilization truly responsible for the construction of both the Citadel and the relays through which intergalactic communication is possible. It through their technology that all of the races first reached the stars. Any new technology of Prothean origin, therefore, is of immediate, universal interest.

Mikoto is not supposed to know about it, but the Alliance gossips, and Fugaku’s status as a testable weapon means that he somehow knows things he should not, confirms them. Ancient Prothean technology was discovered on Eden Prime, the first human colony.

Which, when a human ship carrying a Council representative went to retrieve it, was discovered to be utterly decimated by others who also sought such power.

“We should have just kept it,” says Mikoto as they seat themselves in the mess hall, still reeling from the news. “How can they blame us for the loss of it when they wouldn’t know about it without us in the first place?”

“It’s all talk. And they are not so angry. Do you remember Commander Shepard?”

“From the Skrillian Blitz? Of course. We ran those scenarios in boot camp.”

“Correct. Evidently, they have seen fit to make her a Spectre.”

The news that a human has become one of the Council’s chief agents, with the permission to do whatever it takes to achieve their mission parameters, is startling. Especially so close on the heels of the failed retrieval of the Prothean beacon.

“Why?” she asks, poking a little bit at the lumpy mess on her plate and wondering if Svrinas mixed up the dextro and levo portions. It probably won’t kill her, but their next assignment is on a planet with a toxic atmosphere, sealed helmets only, so vomiting is not an option.

He shrugs. “It’s only a matter of time before humans join the Council. We only have to wait a little longer.”

Mikoto remains silent.

* * *

Even the Citadel is hardly a haven of interspecies communication. Partly because they all actually have to live together, and partially because this is where the politics happen.

However, it is the non-Council races who are the most open in their contempt for humanity. Mikoto encounters more than one volus (who, with their small rotund shape, respiration suits and wheezing voices, remind her a bit of mole men) willing to tell her that the only reason humanity is advancing so quickly into the intergalactic community is because the Council needs the bodies.

“We adapt,” she corrects, but the oily feeling in the back of her throat does not go away.

They are everywhere. They have been allowed to spread.

But what do the others want of them?

* * *

Time goes on. They keep up their patrol amid increasing tensions, strange currents that are passing throughout the galaxies. She hears rumors of an Alliance black ops group, codename Cerberus, has gone rogue. She reads reports on illegal organ harvest, and listens to newscasts of the exposure of several businesses’ corrupt practices coming abruptly to light. As though little by little, the universe is going mad.

Then Sovereign comes.

* * *

To explain what Sovereign is means recognizing that when humanity entered the intergalactic community, they didn’t just inherit the dryness of rules and regulations, the territory lines and the right to trade.

They inherited its myths.

And its nightmares.

The story of the Reapers is beyond even millennia. A race of synthetics that reappear whenever civilizations reach their apex, decimate them and retreat. They spare the young races, those who have not advanced along enough to be a threat.

And wait until the next time.

The grainy transmissions that come through the computers do not refer to the vessel explicitly as a Reaper, but Mikoto sees the images that are thrown up on every monitor inside the ship.

It appears that it is their turn.

The Alliance Fleet is called in to provide reinforcements for the Citadel, joining alien fleets in defense.  

There are not many opportunities to look out the window in full view of the Reapers, but the glimpses they catch are horrible enough. It does not look like a proper spaceship at all.

It looks  _alive_ , made of a material she cannot name, shaped like some monster from the depths of Earth’s oceans, which even now remain unplumbed.

And the  _noise_. Noise shouldn’t travel in space, but  _something_  emanates from the Reaper, coming in waves. A mechanical scream that rattles her teeth and triggers a terror that takes enormous effort to overcome. She has to force herself to stay at her station, and not give in to the impulse to curl up and hide.

She hears Commander Shepard’s call to charge the Reaper, filtered through the comms, but does not realize in the moment that it is a sacrifice play, to allow the escape of the trapped Council. Objectively, she understands why it was the correct choice, but it still hurts, to see so many human lives lost. The long lists of the honored dead.

* * *

Still, in their gratitude the Council allows humanity to be inducted among the Council races. The rebuilding commences. Attitudes towards humanity are softened, in general, and Mikoto feels that perhaps their sacrifice has been made; perhaps they will be able to proceed smoothly.

Then, one month after the attack, while on their way to a routine call, the  _Normandy_ , Shepard’s ship, is attacked by unknown forces.

The commander’s body is never found.

* * *

Reports come in, claiming that Sovereign was simply yet another weapon of the geth, carrying out a traitor’s deluded visions.

Mikoto disregards them.

She saw it.

She knows.

* * *

A month after the incident, the Alliance is still reeling from the loss of a hero and everyone is trying to move back into necessary assignments. Their squad is shipped back out; their first mission together again is to answer a distress signal from colony Uzumaki.

But when they get there, everyone is  _gone_.

The prefab houses have scorch marks from fired weapons. Some are of human make, familiar. Some of the doors kicked down and the windows blasted open.

But the others…

Mikoto has never seen such marks.

Much of the settlement is still pristine. The tech is all still there; even gadgets that might fetch a good price in the black market and are easy to carry. Safes with credits and valuables left unhacked. The fields have not been burned in spite.

There aren’t even any corpses. A few human weapons are scattered out here or there, as if the colonists had sought to defend themselves. There are signs of bodies being dragged away, but no blood.

It is a deeply, deeply unnerving sight. Mikoto wonders, feeling ill, what use slavers might have for corpses.

It is hours before they find any survivors, hidden in a barn on the furthest edges of the colony. Two girls, the older one no more than sixteen. It was her long red hair that alerted them to her presence, that and the glint of a battered old shotgun, clutched in shaking hands. She is terrified, but still ready to fight for herself and the girl behind her.

Her name is Kushina.

She and her cousin are the only ones left.

* * *

Despite the fear in her eyes, there is clearly still a spark in Kushina the kidnappers could not wipe out. Mikoto is relieved as they send her and her cousin back to relatives on Earth. They will survive.

But that is not the end of it.

Other colonies are going missing. Unlike Uzumaki, however, there are no witnesses.

But after the attack on the Citadel, resources are being devoted to upgraded security, more V.I.s, and arguing with the Council over humanity’s seat. No time at all to protect anyone, let alone their own. Wasn’t that why they fought so hard for the Council’s good favor? Why the Alliance sacrificed whole ships for their survival?

Mikoto asks Fugaku to appeal to Admiral Sarutobi, the man she has learned he reports to. A highly decorated officer, well respected in the Alliance ranks.

“I’ve tried,” he snaps, when Mikoto presses. “I  _keep_  trying. But if they’ve listened, they won’t do what we want.”

“Then what will they do?”

The question is meant to be rhetorical, sputtered more out of frustration than any expectation of answer, but Fugaku’s face shifts across their shogi board and Mikoto realizes that he has an answer.

He sighs.

“Admiral Sarutobi contacted me a few days ago,” he admits. “They want to coordinate a joint border patrol effort with some of the turian ships.”

“The turians? But isn’t that a good thing? We could use more bodies.” Mikoto thinks of the turians, with their military discipline and drive for competence, and despite some residual memories of the First Contact War, finds the prospect…exciting. As a child, turians were the stuff of nightmares—metallic and dragon-like, with needle-sharp teeth. But as militaristic allies, they are invaluable.

Yet Fugaku still looks unhappy.

“They are starting with only a couple of ships,” he says. “Handpicked crews, to ensure greatest mutual cooperation. They are pulling people from all over the galaxy.”

Realization coils in the pit of her stomach.

“Including you,” she says.

“Including me,” he acknowledges. “I have been assigned to a turian ship. We will patrol their side of Citadel space.”

This is good news. It is a good move for Fugaku’s career, that he is already coming so highly recommended.

But he will be leaving.

“We won’t take missions together anymore,” she says, for a lack of anything profound.

“Yes,” agrees Fugaku. He hesitates briefly for a moment, then goes on. “Actually, that is something I will need to discuss further with you and the crew. The _Manila_  is going to be given a new assignment _._ As my abilities are needed elsewhere, you and the others will be given new assignments.”

“What?”

“The Alliance is recouping from the losses it suffered in the fight,” he recites dully, looking tired. “It is doing its best to redistribute their forces in the most efficient way possible.”

“So they are  _pulling_  ships from patrol?”

“They need to reshuffle the bodies. Protection for supply lines from our more established colonies to the ones further out in space. They need the bodies. The Council can provide assistance, but we would have to do this anyways.”

“But…” Mikoto pulls at her hair, leans forward and buries her face in her hands. “But why split us up? It works. We  _work_.”

Her voice, she hates it, it sounds so pitiful and small.

“I know, Mikoto.” She looks up—that is the first time he has used her first name since their original meeting. She looks around, to check that no one else is in the break room. But it is just him, and her, and empty chairs. “I’m sorry.”

There is silence between them. He sighs.

“Captain Achebe will be making the announcement tomorrow. In two days I will be officially assigned to a turian unit. You won’t be my subordinate anymore. If you have the time, we can meet up somewhere on the Citadel. Maybe this could give us a chance to discuss a few things.”

It is a big step for Fugaku, to acknowledge that what they have is divergent from protocol, and the little smile he gives her ought to be encouraging.

Instead, she feels herself sinking.

She knows that she should say something, that she should allow herself to acknowledge what they have as well, so that they might at least part with that.

But she says nothing.

He waits a moment, and stands. “I’ll be in talks with Admiral Hackett and my new squad leader. Send me a message if you want to meet.”

She says nothing, even when he leaves.

* * *

They get promoted, hand in hand in their new orders, to ease the sting.

She is now officially Lieutenant Uchiha.

Over the next few days, she stays with the rest of her squad, protesting privately but not publically their new assignments. She does not contact Fugaku independently, outside of the night the squad pulls him out of his rented rooms to “celebrate” his new rank. Most of the night involves more alcohol than Mikoto has ever seen in her life, and one of the only times she has seen her squadmates go well past the brink of no return.

They don’t share a private word throughout the entire evening, though they sit side by side, laughing at the same jokes and stories. He helps her carry Jameson and Chung back to their rooms, and walks her back to the room she is sharing with Onate, who retired earlier in the evening.

Six stories up, and he does not bring up the question she both dreaded and hoped that he might. A conversation that probably shouldn’t happen, not when he is on the verge of joining his new turian ship the following afternoon and when she is too lightheaded to treat it with the sincerity it deserves.

“Good luck,” she tells him, leaning against the door to her room, wishing she was not so dizzy.

“Good night,” he returns. His hand reaches up, held briefly between them, then goes to touch the brim of his hat—a salute.

She returns it.

The corner of his mouth tips up ever so slightly, and he turns and walks back down the hall, towards the elevator. Mikoto watches him go, and in the span of the moment every thought she has wanted to convey to him fills her throat, choking her. She has to turn away, back into the room, so that she can breathe again.

In the morning he is gone, and it is too late.

She does not regret her actions at first. They will meet again, she tells herself. Might even serve again under the same command, and there would be plenty of opportunities to speak then. It would be inappropriate, them being who they are, to give last minute, sloppy professions of affection or attraction.

But the days after Fugaku’s departure are a continual series of losses, as everyone is called away to their new ships, and the ache within her grows only more pronounced, and she is forced to face the truth.

The Alliance is taking away all that she loves about it.

* * *

Mikoto is sick of the Citadel.

Her new ship is another cruiser, one that lost half its company to geth troopers on the Citadel grounds.

Three months in, they can work together. There remains a divide between the newcomers and the company, though they take orders together well enough. The ship is still undergoing repairs, and the last eight weeks has been devoted to determining that this company will work together.

She and the other soldiers have been given accommodations in one of the cheap hotels in one of the less damaged parts of the Citadel. Day after day, she trains with her new squadmates, studies their strategies and tries to bond over the same food and shared fights.

Night after night she returns to her room; bare but for her bed and equipped with a television and a small communications terminal. It is not much less than what she had on the  _Manila_ —what she will have on her new ship. Night after night, she hears news on the rebuilding on the Citadel. Repeated assurances about how well the galaxy has pulled together in their effort.

She hears the fresh denials from the Council that Sovereign’s attack was anything more than the master plan of a rogue Spectre controlling his own army of geth, instead of being the Reaper that it is. Though a few members of her new company share in her outrage, the others are quick to accept the official explanations, too tired and determined to move forward with their lives to stay angry.

No word on colonies, beyond a couple of lines when it seems one has fallen out of contact.

_Nothing._

She is getting angry, and she desperately, does not wish to be.

She just wants to  _help_.

Then, three nights before the ship is ready, Mikoto receives a private transmission in her quarters.

The contact name is unlisted.

Cautiously, Mikoto answers it.

“Hello? “

“ _Am I speaking to Lieutenant Mikoto Uchiha?_ ” A woman’s voice filters through, her Standard tinged Australian.

A message pops up requesting visuals; Mikoto ignores it.

“This is she. Who might you be?”

“ _Excellent. My name is Miranda Lawson; I am an operative with Cerberus. Might we speak face to face, Lieutenant? We’ve tried to contact you before—there is something of utmost importance I would like to discuss with you._ ”

“I can hear you well enough, Miss Lawson. What business do you have with me?”

“ _A job offer. Or a private contract, if you will,” says Miranda, her voice reverberating on the last word. “To apply your talents where they might best be used._ ”

“What made you contact me?”

“ _We like to keep track of all promising recruits in the Alliance. Of those who wish to help others but find themselves…constrained. Who do not believe the official line of the Council when it contradicts their own eyes._ ”

Mikoto is silent.

“But why,” she asks carefully, “Do you think that would be me?”

The woman laughs.

“ _You’re suspicious. A good quality, to not believe everything you see or hear. But you have not been quiet about your unhappiness with your missions in the recent months. An unhappiness with Alliance bureaucracy that I share, and seek to correct. What I am offering you is work that you might find it very rewarding_.”

“And what would that be?”

“ _Finding the source of the colony kidnappings_.”

“You’re investigating the colonies?” Mikoto tries to keep her interest cool, without inflection. “Really?”

“ _Really. At the very least, that is our end goal. The kidnappers will not stop without our interference. Many others. And it all ties back to Reapers, in the end, regardless of the Council’s official word_.”

Mikoto crosses her arms, tries not to lean in any closer. “So you believe Sovereign was a Reaper?”

“Not only believe, we know. Hard not to tell, for anyone with eyes. And where there is one Reaper, there are others on the way.”

“And you intend to stop them?” asks Mikoto. Some part of her notes the absurdity of the statement—Reapers are the ultimate bogeyman, indestructible and devastating. There is a reason most would prefer to believe that they are only stories. “How?”

“ _With the help of the person who brought our attention to the Reapers in the first place. Commander Shepard._ ”

Everything swirling dubiously in Mikoto’s mind freezes at that audacious statement.

“Commander Shepard died nearly six months ago,” she says, coldly.

“ _Commander Shepard nearly died_ ,” corrects Miranda, still almost irritatingly calm. “ _I will not argue the point—her body was spaced, and in bad condition, but there is enough of her left that with the right technology, we can bring her back to her full strength._ ”

“How long would that take?” asks Mikoto. She wants to laugh; this is too good to be true. She should turn Miranda down or just shut off the channel.

But still, she keeps listening.

“ _We are looking at an estimate of two years to fully restore her. The kind of technology we need has not yet been either acquired or invented_.” Miranda speaks of the obstacle as if it is to be expected, as though she already has a plan in place, and all she needs is time.

Mikoto gives a cutting laugh. “I’m not a scientist. I wouldn’t be useful to you for  _that_. Why would you need me?”

“ _Oh, you would not be directly involved in Shepard’s revival. We want you to focus on the colonies. We seek to protect human potential; we are not going to stand idly by and watch more colonies end up like Uzumaki during the time it will take to bring back Shepard._

 _“We need to learn about these enemies of ours, to rescue, to accumulate information. Even if restoring Shepard proves to be futile, we would have evidence of Reaper activities to bring forward to the Council. Evidence they would not be able to ignore. Evidence that would be too dangerous for untrained civilians to obtain. That is why we need you. Doesn’t that sound like something you want, Lieutenant?_ ”

Miranda is not answering her question. On the other hand, Mikoto thinks, she offers something greater: a mission. A search for the answers to so many of the problems that Mikoto has carried. A determination to find desperately needed answers. Answers she will never find, in her current situation.

Mikoto is quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reaches out and activates the visuals with unsteady fingers.

A woman in a black and white uniform materializes before her. She is beautiful, with long dark hair and eyes sharp even through the fuzzy pixels of her projection. She smiles at Mikoto.

“ _Welcome to Cerberus, Mikoto. We seek to protect_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> SPECIAL THANKS: for sswolfgirl, lilmikomiko, and uchihasass, who were all kind enough to read this and provide feedback, despite only knowing one or the other of the canons this fic contains.


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